An Improbable Existence
by Violetrose25
Summary: Sequel to "All Is Possible". The life of Asta Norhman, how she comes to grips with being alone in her world, leading a double life, and of course on top of that she's too smart for her own good. (M for smut and language. I own nothing!)
1. Prologue

My existence is an anomaly. Let's just get that out of the way. I was not supposed to exist, by all the natural laws of science. But for some reason, they decided to go out on coffee break while I was conceived. That's not to say that I'm ungrateful. No, no, nothing like that. I'm happy to exist. I'm glad I exist.

And no, for the record, I'm not like Renemee from Twilight. And I'm not like Blade either, despite the claims Mikey may make. What I am is an improbably. Does that mean I have some special purpose? ... No... at least I don't think.

But that's the question isn't it? What's my purpose? The great existential crisis that lies within us all. Some questions we just don't have answers for. But...

Wait, where was I going with this? Fuck, it's on the tip of my tongue.

Oh yeah, yeah. Being the only one of your kind can be a major pain in the ass. Sometimes I feel like that chick from Species, you know?

Not because I was created in a lab, as far as I know. Apparently I was born in a motel six, right after my father saved my mother from being sacrificed to Jesus or something because I was a sin against nature. If that turns out to be a lie and I really was made in a laboratory, then what a shitty cover-story THAT was.

Also emotionally traumatizing, but that's beside the point.

I'm the only Half-Vampire in existence. My name is Asta Freydis Northman, and this is the story of my strange and improbable life.

AUTHLRS NOTE: SO I HOPE YOU ALL LIKED THIS PROLOGUE. SO YOU HEARD HER, THIS IS HER LIFE. NEXT CHAPTER IS HER EARLIEST MEMORIES AND NOTABLE FIRSTS. THANKS FOR READING! ALSO I MAY HAVE THIS LEAD INTO A CROSSOVER OF SORTS, BUT I HAVEN'T DECIDED. SEE YOU NEXT CHAPTER!


	2. A Lesson In Self-Image

This was my earliest memory. Or more so, the first actual coherent memory. Anything before came to me in flashes, a bright Sun hurting my eyes or my mother reacting strangely to my first word. Actually, it was my first two words. They came in the same breath. She had this expression of confusion and bewilderment, shock and concern.

As my father later told me, my first words were "Bloody! Bloody me!"

And, as my father told me, it was because I was eating spaghetti and was covered in sauce. As all seven-month-olds are, I was really really bad at eating. Apparently I must have caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror, where my parents took me to wash the sauce off.

But that's not the point. My first real memory, one that lasted a few minutes, came when I was two.

My aunt Pam was babysitting while both my parents were at work. We sat together on the couch, and she was flipping through channels. When I was that young, I thought Pam was the prettiest thing in the world. And it was because she had a similar skin to mine. There is no way to say this without sounding racy, though I don't mean it like that, but it's the truth.

My mother, though I loved her, always looked too tan. Against my skin, it looked too dark. My father looked a lot like me, so I felt more... I belonged better in his arms than my mother's. Sounds fucked up, but that was just how I viewed things. Pam was the only woman at the time who looked like me. I gravitated towards her because of that.

She and I share a bond, even to this day. Pam admitted to being against my existence at first and... actually, we'll get to all that later.

Despite my mother wanting Pam to keep the tv on Nick Jr, I had an inkling, even then, that Pam had an agenda. I watched curiously as she tired to find something, something specific.

We had a lot of channels, so eventually I began to grow bored with watching her. I toddled over to the coffee table and picked up the first thing I could get my hands on. What it happened to be was a copy of "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy", which has since become my bible and will probably be mentioned again later, but that's not the point of this story either.

I had a very strong vocabulary even then, and found that reading came as naturally as breathing. I only got as far as the second page before my aunt picked me up and set me on her lap.

"Asta." She said.

"Yes, Auntie?"

"Look at the screen. Watch this, will you?"

Putting my book down, I did as she asked. It was a documentary about vampires, talking about how they came out of the coffin and all the figureheads in the Vampire Civil rights movement. They showed political debates about their nature and the dangers to humans, they talked about the bombing of the True Blood factories, the Russel Edgington incident, and everything inbetweeen.

When it was over, Pam turned the tv back to Nick Jr.

"Don't tell your parents about this, okay?"

"Yes Auntie."

"I showed you that because I want to tell you something." She stated, quite solemnly.

"What's that, Auntie?"

Her voice got very low, very serious. "That all that is a part of who you are. You are vampire, and you are a fearsome creature. You should be proud of that, and never forget that you can drain a man dry if you want to. Don't let your mother's ideas of normality determine who you are."

I nodded. "I'm a vampire."

"And don't ever forget that." She ran her slender fingers through my hair. "You're a proud little killer and nobody can cross you."

That last sentence stuck with me particularly, simply because of how she said it. The words were full of determination, intimidation, and strength. It made me look up to her. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard, and seen. The air of power that radiated from her was staggering. It made me hope that I'd be that strong and confident when I was older.

Too bad that isn't what happens to me at all.

AUTHORS NOTE: YEAH, THIS WAS A BIT SHORT, BUT THESE CHAPTERS WILL GET LONGER. HOPE THIS WAS GOOD! THANKS SO MUCH FOR READING AND SUPPORTING!


	3. Split Personality

_Fourteen Years Later..._

It was a crisp, clear morning. The wind chilled the air to about 65°, but that was normal for September. The sun shone brightly in a hazy blue sky, though there were no clouds. There was a lone car driving down the mostly deserted country road. It was old, black but not shining. The interior was Orange, matching the two stripes along the hood.

There was a boy behind the wheel of this car. He was a handsome kid, at least by most standards. His hair was black, a bit shaggy but not unkept. His eyes were very sharp and piercing, his nose was straight and angular, but not unfitting to his features. His mouth was in a hard line, as it often was. It gave the impression that he was pissed off about something, but really it was just his resting face.

There was only one person who actually understood that, and he was going to meet her now.

This boy, who the girl mentioned once described as resembling a young Christian Slater, was Mikey Ballflour. He was seventeen, and often wondered if he was adopted. But that comes later.

He approached his destination. There was a long driveway leading to an old house, one that dated back all the way back to the civil war. He took out his cell and texted her number. He was picking her up for school, as he does most days. Her mom, a waitress, couldn't really afford to get her a car, and the bus doesn't come this far out.

His phone buzzed. "Coming." It read.

About three minutes later, the girl in question appeared. She was stunningly beautiful, by all standards. Tan skin, shoulder length, light blonde hair, 5"11, and a gorgeous figure that made her look older than she was. Her face was no less lovely. Razor sharp cheekbones, a feminine oval of a jawline, full lips, a cute knob of a nose, and dark eyes.

This girl was a year younger than Mikey, and her name was Asta Sackhouse. She was in faded jeans, and a loose tie-dye shirt. How she was in short sleeves in this weather was beyond Mikey.

There was always something sad behind those eyes, and the little smile that always graced her face. It seemed that only he could see this. It was odd, but he supposed it was really none of his business.

"Morning, Mikey. How are you?" She asked, stepping into the passengers seat.

"Oh good. You know, existing."

"Well... isn't that what we're supposed to do? Exist?"

"If we choose." He replied.

She shrugged. "I suppose. Say, would you turn on the radio?"

He pressed the button to turn it on, then switched it to the local pop station. Yes, even in Louisiana, they have a pop station. It was early, and that meant it was the throwback hour. Even though the songs were only a few years old. "Carry Out" played from the speakers. Asta snapped her fingers, bopping her head accordingly.

"God." Mikey said, smiling. "This is such a dumb song. How can you dance to this? And why do I want to join you?"

"It's enjoyable. Everybody likes dumb shit."

"Nobody admits it, though."

"I admit it. You admit it." She corrected.

He snorted. "We have no taste, then."

"First of all, that's Bullshit. We have plenty of taste. Secondly, it's not a lack of taste as much as a lack of shame." She argued.

"So you're saying not having shame is a good thing?"

She shrugged. "To an extent, yes. Everybody these days is so politically correct and only want to hear 'intellectual music'."

"Well you like intellectual music, right? I've heard you humming along to Bach and Mozart and Florence and the Machine plenty of times."

She smiled. "Well yes. All I'm saying is that as a society, we need to loosen up. Embrace the stupid and weird and stop getting so offended by everything and just... I think this world would be a happier place."

Mikey paused. "What are we talking about at this point? Because I don't think we're talking about dumb music anymore."

She sighed. "I don't know. You know me, I get off track with things. Sorry."

"Doesn't bother me. It's interesting, actually. You don't talk like other people."

"Oh?"

"You don't." He said. "It's like your mind is analyzing a hundred things at once."

She shot him a strangely sardonic smile. "You have no idea."

Mikey didn't reply. Whenever she answered cryptically like this to whatever somebody said, she wasn't giving any further explanation. Especially if you asked. He'd tried for years, asking Asta to elaborate on things, but she just sighed heavily and said something like "never mind" or "Forget it, I'm not sure what I'm rambling about myself".

So he just kept his mouth shut. They pulled into the school parking lot, where all the other children (who drove cars, anyway) were gathered.

There were a few faces in particular that were recognisable to the lifelong friends. A medium height, lanky boy of sixteen, with wild strawberry hair and green eyes. This was Sam's kid, Tommy. Named after his deceased uncle. Another boy, fifteen, was dark-skinned and muscular. He rested casually on a bench with a book in hand. Lafayette's adopted son Jesus (which was pronounced in a Spanish accent, making it sound like Hey-Zues). Named after a deceased lover.

Seemed a lot of people were named after dead counterparts. Andy's lone daughter, Adalyn/Braylen/Charlene/Danicka, was named after her three dead sisters. She was also Mikey's cousin. A quiet, reserved girl, ABCD (as everyone called her) was popular amongst the boys.

She didn't much care for Asta. ABCD was wary of the blonde, probably because of how much Mikey secretly adored her and definitely because she couldn't read Asta's mind. In fact, there was a lot about that girl she didn't like. That Mona Lisa smile never left her face, which was unnatural. How odd her skin looked, like it was... there was something off about it. Her eyes seemed too alert.

And worst, there was something just... unrreal about her. ABCD couldn't put her finger on it.

Why Mikey wanted to put a ring on that girl more than life itself she couldn't understand, even with her ability.

The duo in question proceeded to their respective classes, unaware of the many sets of eyes that were wondering the same thing as the fairy. Well, Asta was aware, but tried to put it in the back of her mind.

* * *

It was evening, and Asta was home again. The smile had long since disappeared. She'd been doing her homework, which didn't take long. In about an hour she'd be going to the one place where she could be herself. Fangtasia. Her father let her come in and enjoy herself. To the humans, she was just another vampire. Eric's prodigy, perhaps.

So Asta began to get ready. She went into her bathroom. First thing was first. Off with the wig. The light hair, which was expertly crafted to look real, came off, only finding itself on a hanger by the mirror. Why a wig instead of dye? Why change the color at all?

Well, it was because of the shade of hair beneath. It was short, sticking out in wild directions. And it was so close to Eric's color of blonde that it was scary. Dark gold, really. She had to hide her striking resemblance as much as she could, in order to avoid suspicion. And they'd chosen a wig to avoid the appearance of roots.

Next came the brown contacts. Two eyes, the same color as Asta was born with, revealed themselves.

Now she took off the jeans. The shirt. The undergarments. Into the shower. Here she washed away the make-up. All that tan skin flushed down the drain. She couldn't tan naturally. She tried. Only resulted in a nice sunburn.

Asta sighed. It was for her protection, her parents said. Protection from the Authority. The Fellowship of the Sun. All the religious nuts, in fact. Nobody was to be fully trusted. Etcetera.

She looked at this reflection of herself. The spitting image of her father. She was more vampire than human, and especially fairy. All she got from that gene was a bit of protection against the sun. It was a good thing she couldn't read minds, because that was just too much.

It was hard enough being two people.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: SO I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED THE STORY SO FAR! THANKS FOR READING AND SUPPORTING!


	4. After Hours

It was dark down here. Then again, it always was. Asta always had mixed feelings about this place. One part of her loved this place. She was happy here in a way she couldn't quite explain. The darkness, the feeling of security, the scent of death... it was perfect and satisfying. Yet a part, granted a very small part, despised this basement. Detested the smell of vampire. And another part, much stronger, told her to fear this place. It was dark, anything could be lurking. It smelled wrong. She must leave.

But she didn't. The blonde did not flee. Instead, she sat quietly upon the recliner her dad got for her. Long ago had Eric Northman given this place up as his dungeon... for the most part. As far as the Authority knew, it was now Pam's private lounge. Asta was never allowed here when they were in town. Eric made sure of that. She once asked how he knew when they were coming, a long time ago. He only smiled and said: "You'd be surprised how many friends you get over a thousand years."

Asta knew not to question further. She was too smart, and too perceptive. And she knew her father well. If he wanted to keep something a secret, he was going to keep it a secret. And he knew what he was doing.

Asta rarely came up to the actual bar, for obvious reasons. But when she did, Asta was hardly noticed. Humans, especially when drunk, were far more stupid and unaware than they believed. Put Asta in one of Pam's outfits and she looked like any other vampire. And to the vampires, she looked like any other fangbanger.

So here she was, reading in her basement, as safe and as free as she was going to be. Well... safe, anyway.

The blonde inhaled the air again. Death, fear, moisture, sex, pain. This place was her haven, this place was her prison.

Just then the door to the main bar opened, and the sound of leather boots came echoing down the stairs. She didn't even have to look to know it was her father. Eric adored her, his princess. His child. One only had to look at his eyes to see that. They glowed with pride, hiding fear behind it.

Asta of course loved her father. He looked like her, smelled like her, and felt only slightly different to the touch. Just a little bit colder. There was a bind between them, primal and ancient. Older than the vampire, older than the human. An animalistic tie of blood and flesh and love. Not sexual, never. Just genetics. And magic.

"Hey Dad." She said, smiling. "How are you?"

This was a rather pointless question, and both of them knew that. It was really more of a joke than anything between them.

"I'm the same. How are you? How was school?"

By now Asta had learned the double meanings in her father's questions. And she knew how to answer him.

"I'm fine. School was normal. No catastrophes."

He nodded. "Good. Good. Are you sure that you're okay?"

Asta nodded. "I'm fine."

He approached her, as if she was telling a filthy lie. Eric did this slowly, cupping her face in his hands and looking into her eyes. They were mirror images of one another. Once he was satisfied, Eric gave Asta a kiss on the forehead.

"You are."

Eric seemed to inspect his daughter daily, well, nightly, just making sure that she wasn't dying or in serious pain or something. Asta didn't know what it was he was so worked up about.

"Can I get you anything? Are you hungry?"

Asta hesitated in answering. Inside her body, as usual, a conflict arose. One part of her that she was disgusting, a monster. Another part, the smallest, spoke in screams of protest and outrage, incoherent to the human ear yet crystal clear to her. And of course the part that told her it was in her nature, and if she didn't eat, she'd die.

And this was the part that one.

"Yes. Will you bring me something?"

"Man or woman?" He asked.

"Hmm... man, I suppose."

He smiled. "I'll have your aunt bring you something."

And with that, he ascended to the bar. Asta sat quietly in the dark, contemplating. She needed to feed a night or so a week. It made sense, she was predominantly vampire. Tru-Blood had, as she had gotten older, lost it's nutritional value. Maybe it was because she was still partly human, maybe it was because of her body needing craving it during the delicate physcial changes during puberty and teen-hood, maybe she had developed some sort of allergic reaction to it over the years... She didn't know. But she needed real blood. And in a vampire bar, it wasn't hard to find.

The familiar sound of pumps came echoing down the stairs now, followed by a pair of cheap leather boots.

"Right this way." She said, putting on her fake seductive voice.

It made Asta smile. How could any body not see through that? The man that she'd brought with her was young, Asta knew. She could smell lust and Old Spice, mixed with axe hair spray. The boy was around twenty three, from what Asta could tell by looking at him. A black Mohawk. Fake leather and spike collar. Mesh top. Eyeliner. And fucking skinny jeans.

"Whoa, who's this?" He asked in that heavy southern accent.

Asta walked slowly up, making sure to put emphasis on the swing of her hips and the little devilish smile on her lips. She held out her hand.

"Anna." She lied smoothly.

"You don't mind if she joins this little party, Austin, now do you?" Pam asked, near whispering in his ear.

He looked Asta up and down. Long legs, curves, tits, not a butterface... She was perfect.

"The more the merrier." He said, kissing the back of Asta's hand.

Keeping her little smile, Asta led this boy over to the couch at the far end of the basement. It was pure red, of course. What other color would a vampire have for their furniture?

Pam sat on the other side of this Austin, smiling as well. Asta knew the drill by now. She grabbed his head, pulling his eyes away from the young blonde beside him. And as soon as he made eye contact, he was butter. Asta always loved watching Pam work her magic.

"You will take off that ridiculous collar and let Anna drink from you. You will not touch her, you will not kiss her. And when she's had her fill, you will not remember a thing of this basement, Anna, or myself. You'll go upstairs and spend your money on booze, go home, and get a less tacky wardrobe."

Asta struggled not to laugh. Austin obediently took off his collar, offering his neck to the young woman. She tenderly held his shoulder and head, staring at the exposed skin as a thirteen year old boy stares at internet porn. The hot juices pumped, flowing just beneath the flesh. Asta licked her lips, pulled out her fangs, and bit down.

He gasped. Asta tasted the salt on his sweat, followed by the tang of blood. This was a taste so unique that Asta could barely describe it in words. To a human, blood tasted like iron and pennies. Nasty stuff, really. But to a vampire... it was like if you could taste the different emotions in their blood.

Really, Asta knew it was the chemicals that the body releases during natural stimuli. Adrenaline and testosterone... endorphins... Like all the rare meats combined into one and mixed with pure energy.

She gulped mouthful after mouthful of hot blood, enjoying the sound of his frantic breathing. Asta could feel vitality rushing through her, heating her up and making her cheeks flush pink. Finally she pulled away, lapping the last remaining bits of juice pumping out of his throat.

Pam looked on lovingly, eyes beaming with sick pride. She pricked her finger with her fangs, and ran the bleeding digit over the wound. It healed instantly. No evidence.

"Now get the fuck out of here." Pam commanded, shooing the dazed kid away.

He stumbled up the stairs, out the door, forgetting the strange girl in the basement.

Asta was emotionless during this time, right after the feeding. She was numb. The guilt and horror and self loathing were hidden behind a thick wall of shock. Pam smiled lovingly. Asta licked the blood from her lips.

This is my haven, this is my hell, Asta thought.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED THIS CHAPTER. IT TOOK ME A WHILE TO WRITE IT, SORRY. THANKS FOR READING AND SUPPORTING! SEE YOU ALL NEXT CHAPTER!


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